Random thoughts and musings from a young Catholic Evangelical. Mostly on religion and global politics and culture, with occasional forays into literature and the existential plight of my self and other selves in the modern world.

Wednesday, 5 September 2007

St George poem Chapter 1- Part 3

Sure enough, this mudbrick hutBedraped with thatch and tarFor generations now had beenThe place where chieftains are.

The soldier was expected,For a man stood by the door.Authority stood on his browBut stiffness in his jaw.

His robes were wound about himIn shades of brown and cream;With stony stare and piercing eyeA statue did he seem.

A beard of black and tousled hairClung furiously to his face;The soldier stood, saluted him,Then bowed with Roman grace.

A very contrast did they seemTo the folk who gathered round-Th'imperial armed with soldiers' gear,The village elder bowed with years-Never had such a sight appearedWithin this little town.

At last the village elder spoke,"Good sir, you've travelled far.We are simple people here,But we will welcome without fearAn honest traveller."

"You need not fear me, noble chief,For it is peace I bring-The peace of purpled emperorsAnd th'eagle on the wing;A peace that reaches far and wide,That roams o'er land and sea;The peace that rules an empireIs what I bring to thee."

About Me

I am not my job. I am not my upbringing. I am not the things I know or the skills I have. I am a sinner being saved by grace, a self marooned in the cosmos. There are clear signposts. The path is perilous. Fortunately, I am not the first to come this way.